Stealing His Thunder (Masters of Adrenaline 1)

Chapter 1

Energy buzzed through Addison as though lightning had invaded her bloodstream. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the dry Nevada night. Awkwardly, she held her body as close to the window of the vehicle without touching it as she could. Her ass was dangerously close to bumping the car in the next spot over. She made a mental note to avoid crowded parking lots from now on, even if the ritzy apartment complex did have some of the finest engines she’d ever seen.

After disabling the alarm on the silver Lexus, she slid the blank key into her hacking device and waited for it to upload the car’s computer information.

It was her first time using the new software—something she had modeled after an existing gadget thieves who actually had money could afford. It was hard to believe she’d gone from mostly law-abiding undergrad student to criminal all because of a news segment on high-end car theft. The idea that it was now about hacking instead of hotwiring appealed to her inner nerd.

Time to put her electrical engineering degree to the test. Busting her ass for her master’s was a waste of her time and potential when, in less than ten minutes, she could drive off in a hundred and fifty thousand dollar Lexus.

So far, she hadn’t resold any of them to chop shops or done anything that illegal. Ditching them on the side of the highway was enough to feed her adrenaline addiction. The whole thing was harmless and barely broke any laws. It was more of a prank, really. At least that was what she told herself as she went to sleep at night. She might have been slinking around in the dark, wearing black, stealing cars from rich people, but she had principles, damn it.

Eventually, she might travel down the cash-paved road of organized crime, but she had a plan to keep her karma scale in balance. She’d donate a large percentage of her income to charity. Steal from the rich, give to the poor. Like Robin fucking Hood.

And then there were her grandparents—the real reason she’d started down this path.

If she ever figured out how to sell what she stole, she could reunite them. The system sucked. What kind of world forced apart a couple who’d been married for forty-five years just because one of them was too sick to live at home? Like her gran was doing that much better?

The sight of the small, frail woman trying to transfer her husband back and forth from bed to wheelchair had been heartbreaking. Even respite workers hadn’t been enough to keep him home—not when he started fighting Gran’s help when they were alone. The fact that he rarely remembered the woman he’d built his whole life around was bad enough. Separating them should have been illegal. There just wasn’t money to have them together at the nursing home, though.

With desperation driving her, she’d practiced hacking into cars, working her way up to the big leagues. It was more interesting than working part-time at the electronics store. She just wished she could find a way to make it pay her in cash rather than adrenaline.

Just as the device finished uploading the code into her blank key, her phone buzzed in her cargo pants pocket. Shit. Rolling her eyes at the disruption, she pulled it out so she could turn it off. The name Mama Drama with a text message lit up on the screen.

Scrapbooking class starts in one hour, if you’re interested.

She sighed.

The woman had an obsession with decorating photos from every life moment with stickers and doilies and cheesy sayings like “a time to treasure” and “moments to remember.” After she’d finished all of Addison’s baby books, she’d gone on to scrapbook family vacations, Addison’s graduation, and every major and minor holiday. Didn’t think Labor Day could have a photo theme? Think again. Even their dog, Peanut, had his own scrapbook. And if her mom knew about her budding car theft addiction, she’d probably scrapbook the hell out of that too.

She typed back, Busy. Thanks anyway.

Guilt about doing something her staid parents would never understand weighed her down. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was adopted. How did two careful, productive citizens produce an adrenaline junkie daughter with a penchant for crime?

The sound of heavy breathing echoed through the parking garage, but she realized it was her own. She had to hurry. She’d been sitting here too long already.

Excitement pulsed through her. Anticipation mixed with nerves and a sense of danger, colliding in her belly, warming her insides and extending down between her legs. It was almost as good as an orgasm. In fact, one of her biggest fantasies was wild, hurried sex on a car she’d just stolen. God, she was such a perv.

With the upload complete, and the car alarm disabled, she opened the door and slid into the smooth leather seat. Grinning madly, she sat back and ran her hands over the steering wheel. Time for a ride.

The door creaked open wider and she turned just in time to see a fist flying toward her.

***

Pain. So much pain. Like someone had bashed her head in with a brick.

A voice murmured distantly as she tried to force her eyes open. Her head felt too fog

gy, her body too weak to go on alert like she knew she should be. What happened?

She finally managed to pry open her stubborn eyelids. Her temple throbbed in time with her heart.

Oh yeah. Fist to the head.

Had she been caught? Was this jail? She stared up at a ceiling, trying to process anything other than the ice pick in her skull. The distant voice dropped lower then disappeared. The white paint above her was smooth, not cracked and peeling. The air felt cool and smelled like leather.

No. This wasn’t prison.

She turned her head, groaning at the stab of pain to her temple. If she had a mirror, she was sure she’d see a giant goose egg there. At least her hair would cover it.

Trying to process what was going on was like fighting an ocean undertow. She was on a bed, that much she knew. There was a black sheet underneath her and a blanket balled up at the end of the mattress. The furniture in the room was sparse—a table, a dresser, and the bed placed up against the wall. No windows. A basement? She shuddered. There was nothing more disconcerting than being knocked out only to wake up in a stranger’s basement.

A pair of jean-clad legs came into view. With effort, she lifted her gaze to see a man staring down at her. His cold blue eyes sent a shiver through her.

Wincing, he held something out to her. It turned out to be an instant ice pack. “Looks like that hurts.”

No thanks to you, fucker. Scowling, she grabbed the ice and gently pressed it to the side of her head.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were a woman until after I threw the punch.”

Like that was supposed to make her feel better? Who the hell was this guy? “What am I doing here?”

“Answering questions.” He moved back a few steps and she felt some relief with the distance. “Do you know who I am?”

Forcing her stiff limbs to move, she sat upright and leaned against the wall the bed was pushed up against. No headboard, no decorations, as though things like interior decorating were a waste of his time. She studied his handsome face, suddenly feeling like she was supposed to recognize him. Was he a celebrity or something? He looked like he should be famous. Long blondish-red hair was tied back, exposing shaved sections on both sides. The beard and tattoo-covered arms suggested he didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought, which was both intimidating and hot. A black T-shirt covered his massive chest, but left his muscular biceps bare. Biceps a girl could drool over.

She peered around the room, looking for clues about him. To the side, she spotted a coil of rope and a blindfold.